"Oh, Jacky, we were so worried!" cries Clementine Tanner.
"If I ever see you attired in such a way again," warns John Higgins, "I believe I shall have to terminate my employment."
I sight across the barrel and what should I see but Lieutenant Flashby clambering to his feet, his hands still to his face, but yet another part of him presenting an excellent target.
I aim, I dog down the gun, and pull the lanyard.
Crrrracck!
I am rewarded with the sight of Lieutenant Harry Flashby shooting straight up, grabbing his buttocks with both hands, and running back down Conti Street, howling.
Burn me, will you?
"Jim, take us off into the river! There ain't much law in this city, but what there is of it will want to know why the hell we're bombardin' their town!"
Jim Tanner pulls on the tiller and we head out into the river, to safety.
Safety, that is, of sorts. There is still another matter to deal with...
"OOOOOOWWEEEEE! I THINK ITS RECKONIN' TIME NOW, GIRLY! TIME TO MEET YOUR MAKER! TIME FOR OL MIKE FINK TO SETTLE A SCORE! TIME TO WRING YOUR NECK FOR GOOD AND EVER! OOOOOOWWEEEEE!"
I go back to the quarterdeck area where the shouting Fink—a colossus of muscle, bone, and hair—is standing. On the way, I shake my head and wink at Higgins, Jim, and the Hawkes boys, and then I kneel in front of Mike Fink.
"All right, Mike, it's time to do me, but I hope you will be as gentle as you can, so I don't suffer too much. It would be easy for you, since I am but a frail thing and you are so very, very strong." I yank off the wig with its long tumbling ringlets and put on the Full Waif Look, all trembling with big teary eyes. "After all, I've been treated most cruelly on my journey to this place—I have been almost hanged and then tarred and feathered, and the most awful of all, I've lost the respect, admiration, and affection of my own true love."
I pull the bodice of my red Rising Sun dress down over my shoulders, exposing my neck. I lift my chin and say, "Go ahead and do me, Mike. Wrap your hands about my poor throat and exact your revenge, but first ... first, please, my last prayer."
He places his hands about my neck and I lift my own hands under his and put them together in an attitude of prayer, and I pray:
"Lord, please take this poor girl to Your saintly bosom, this girl who really meant no harm to anybody but just tried to make her way in this world as best she could, and sometimes she done wrong, yes, but mostly she tried to do right, at least in the way she saw it. And please take care of my grandpapa and the poor little orphans at the Home for Little Wanderers and find them another benefactor, one who will be more constant than I have been. Amen." I pause here for some sobs and sniffles. "And Reverend ... Clementine ... could you please sing me on my heavenly way with a sacred hymn? It would be a balm to my troubled soul, it would, indeed."
Reverend Clawson and Clementine Tanner look at each other and immediately raise their voices in song:
Oh come, Angel Band,
Come and around me stand,
Bear me away on your snow-white wings,
To my eternal ho-o-o-o-ome.
Mike Fink places his two thumbs on the pit of my throat and grins. "Tarred and feathered, eh? Shore'd like to have been there to see that!" He tightens his grip. "All right, girly, you're goin' home to Jesus..."
But I don't go there, not just yet. He lowers his head and drops his hands and wails, "I can't do it! I just can't do it! I've killed a thousand men, but I just can't do a cryin' little girl!"
And I knew you couldn't do it, Mike!
It is possible that he fell prey to my charms, but it is also possible he sensed the four cocked pistols that were pointed at the back of his head from behind, where he could not see them. I prefer to believe the former.
I stand and lay my hand upon his shoulder. "I will give you your boat back, Mike. And look what we've done with it! Ain't you pleased?"
His head looks about and says, "Yeah, sure. You've turned it inta somethin' I can't use. And hell, there's nothin' more useless than a flatboat or a keelboat down at this end of the river—have to hire a crew to git it back on up. Nope, t'ain't worth it."
"Got whiskey, Mike," I says. "Two full kegs."
Mike lifts his head and smiles. "Whiskey, hey..." He looks off up the river. "All right, Mike Fink thinks maybe you've suffered enough for your crimes agains' him, what with the tar and featherin' and all, so ... gimme two hundred dollars and that two kegs of whiskey and we'll call it even."
Done and done!
We nose the Belle into the bank and Nathaniel hops off to go back up to the levee to get my raft Deliverance, and he poles it down shortly thereafter and the two kegs of whiskey are put on it.
Mike Fink puts the two hundred dollars into his vest and says, with a sly look on his face, "You think you're smart, girl, but I got two hundred dollars in my shirt and I didn't really own that boat."
"I had a strong suspicion in my head that you did not, Mr. Fink," says I, "but does it really matter?"
"No, it don't, girly," says Mike Fink, stepping onto the raft. "But I gotta tell you, I know somethin' you don't know." And an even slyer look comes over his broad face.
"You're gonna tell me, Mike, that my friend Jaimy Fletcher was in the jail in Pittsburgh with you," I say, with a glance at Clementine. "But I already knew that."
Mike Fink sticks his pole in the water and starts back upriver, and then he says, "But what you don't know, Miss Know-it-all, is that I saw yer pretty boy Jaimy not two days ago, down in Chalmette, intendin' to take passage for Jamaica. Now, how's that for somethin' you didn't know?"
Mike Fink roars out, "WEEEEEOOOOOOP! I'M A RINGTAILED WALLOPER AND READY TO DO DAMAGE! LOOK OUT, I'M A-COMIN'! HOLD ME BACK! HOLD ME BACK!"
And he disappears around a corner of the river and, I think, out of my life forever.
I, on the other hand, roar out, "All hands to the sweeps! We gotta get down to Chalmette before he gets away again!"
Chapter 71
Lt. James Emerson Fletcher
Chalmette, St. Bernard Parish
Louisiana Territory
USA
1806
Mr. Ezra Pickering, Esquire
Union Street
Boston, Massachusetts
USA
My dear Ezra,
It is my greatest hope that this letter finds you well. Please convey my felicitations to the many friends I made during my last visit to your fine city.
I have had a long journey down through this country on the Allegheny, Ohio, and Mississippi rivers, and though the travel was hard, I do not regret the trip, for I learned much about myself in the process. I do, however, regret to say that the much anticipated joyous reunion with Miss Faber did not take place as planned, for I found to my sorrow that I am no longer in her heart, as it is apparent that she has taken another in that regard. However, you and her other New England friends will be glad to know that when I last laid eyes on Miss Faber, she appeared to be in the pink of health and in extremely high spirits.
As for my own fortunes, when I finally reached New Orleans, destitute and clad only in rough buckskins, I immediately took myself to the British Consul in that city and was treated most courteously. I told the story of my problem with Captain Rutherford of HMS Juno, and asked the question: Can an officer of the Royal Navy be pressed like a common seaman?
On the consulate staff was a lawyer expert in military law and it was his opinion that such an impressment was highly improper and that I had nothing to worry about, which relieved me greatly—as did the news that Captain Rutherford had been cashiered from the service for letting Miss Faber escape from custody and was no longer in a position to do me harm. I could continue to pursue my naval career without concern.
The Consulate graciously accepted my note on my family's bank in London and soon I was dressed again in a proper uniform.
A ship is leaving for Jamaica in two days, so I shall go there, for English warships are sure to be there, it being a British holding, and I shall try to find a berth. I am anxious to do so as I intend to live a solitary life, taking the ocean as my only mistress. I do not seem to do well on land.
Again, regards to all my friends and may you all prosper. I remain,
Yr Humble and Obedient Servant,
James Fletcher
Chapter 72
We get the Belle down to the docks in Chalmette in late afternoon and I leap off as soon as we touch the landing, to search for a shipping agent if such a one exists, and it turns out he does.
"Yep, the Jefferson Hayes, left coupl'a hours ago, on the outgoin' tide, bound for Kingston. What? Who? Well, let me just check the passenger manifest ... Let's see ... Yep, right there, Lieutenant James Fletcher. He was on her, all right."
Damn!
"When's the next ship leave?"
"For where?"
"For Kingston, for Chris'sakes! Where the hell do you think I meant!"
"Now, you mind your manners, little lady, or I'm closing this hatch and you'll be travelin' nowhere."
The officious fool sits behind a barred window with a small counter in front of him. Grrrrr.
"I am sorry, Sir. Yes, for Kingston."
He scratches his head and looks off. "Well, the Jefferson Hayes generally gets back in a fortnight..."
"Two weeks? Where're all these other ships goin'?" I wave my hand at the forest of masts clustered at the docks.
"Other places, not to Jamaica."
I stand there and fume. I can't wait two weeks! I've got to figure some other way, maybe we cou!d ... well, first things first...
"Is there a ship for Boston?"
"Yes, as a matter of fact, there is. The Hélène Marie. Leaves tomorrow mornin' ten o'clock."
Well, that's a relief, anyway. I've been worried about Chloe and Solomon getting nabbed again, down here in the very heart of the slavery world.
"Good. I'd like to book a party of four—one cabin for a man and wife, Mr. and Mrs. Tanner, and a cabin each for Miss Chloe Cantrell and Mr. Solomon Freeman, both of them persons of color."
The ticket agent, who had been vigorously writing, puts down his pen.
"No, girl, these ships don't haul no coal. Mr. Lafitte's orders—only way blacks travel is if they're chained up down in the bilges."
I'm not believin this!
I fume some more and then the agent gives a snide little laugh and says, "'Course you could buy a boat. Then you could haul your nigras around wherever you wanted to."
"Well, what's for sale, then?"
"Serious?"
"Yes, of course, I am."
"Well, wait a second, then."
He closes the hatch and, in a moment, comes out a side door and commences pointing out boats. "That's the Hiram Johnson, two hundred feet, carries forty ton of cargo, and ... what's your price range, girl?"
"Maybe a thousand."
"Ha! You can forget about the Hiram Johnson, that's for sure. 'Bout the only thing we got that's even close to that price and could make an ocean voyage is that one over there, the Amelia Klump."
He points to a two-masted schooner lying alongside the next wharf over.
Ohhhhh ... she's pretty!
"It's a schooner, come down from Boston..."
I know what she is—she's a Gloucester Schooner! I'd seen others like her up in New England, boats famous for being able to sail with a very small crew. It's said that if you set the sails and tie down the wheel, you could go down to bed, secure in the knowledge that she'll sail all night long in a tight, two-mile circle. Just the thing!